


A Better Place For Us To Be

by Mackem



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Feelings, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, House Hunting, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: A smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. “You’re not speaking hypothetically, are you?” he asks softly, because he needs to be sure. Because they spent millennia not saying how they felt, and he would prefer never to face that uncertainty again. “Do you really mean it, Crowley? You’d like to move somewhere else? Together?”“Of course together. There’s no me without you,” Crowley says immediately, his voice low and tender. Aziraphale reaches out to him instinctively with a soft noise, and Crowley lets himself be reeled closer when Aziraphale fastens a hand around his wrist. He chuckles affectionately when Aziraphale nuzzles briefly into his lean stomach, overcome for just a moment by the warmth in Crowley’s voice.Sometimes he wonders how on Earth he managed to persuade himself that Crowley had ever felt anything other than love for him, when the sheer force of it is like a tidal wave crashing over him, washing away millennia of doubt.





	A Better Place For Us To Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dairyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/gifts).

> Everyone has to have a go at the ol' they-move-into-their-South-Downs-cottage fic, right? Right?
> 
> The [beautiful, amazing, just simply gorgeous art](https://ryarty.tumblr.com/post/186909804970/it-needs-a-little-work) that features in this fic was drawn by [the wonderful Ryarty](https://ryarty.tumblr.com/). Go look at her art! She's brilliant! She not only spoiled me rotten by drawing something so fantastic, but also beta'd this fic like the star she is. Any mistakes which remain are my own. The rating is purely down to a little bit of swearing.
> 
> The title comes from Caravan Of Love by The Housemartins.

Neither of them actually asks the other, in the end. It is just that, eventually, the concept of _not_ living together becomes absolutely preposterous.

Months pass while they enjoy the freedom to be together, and every moment spent in each other’s company is joyous. Oh, they may be other things too: thrilling, romantic, mundane, even occasionally filled to the brim with petty bickering, but they are nevertheless also wonderful.

It stands to reason, then, that every moment not spent in each other’s company pales in comparison.

Neither says anything about it, at first, but it becomes ever more obvious, as they approach a year spent as a couple, that the idea of living together is on their minds. Small moments build to create a larger pattern.

One day, for example, Aziraphale remarks crossly, as they push through crowds of tourists blocking a street, that the busy nature of London no longer feels exhilarating, but wearing. Another late evening as they pull up outside the bookshop, Crowley murmurs that sometimes he can still smell the phantom scent of burning wood and paper on the air. The two of them spend long minutes at a time trying to find items they have ferried between the bookshop and Crowley’s apartment, only to realise in a rush of frustration that they are in the other location.

Most of all, as the days pass, both begin to realise that whilst they may previously have been able to spend extended periods apart without minding the lack of company, that is no longer the case. Gone are the days when centuries can pass between every conversation.

Nowadays, when they are apart, they do little more than miss each other.

It is rather sweet, in a way; it is also completely insufferable. Now they no longer have the obligation to fulfil their respective sides’ demands, they find themselves at a loose end when separated. Without the distraction of carrying out various distant temptations or blessings, without the constant fear of what torturous punishment their superiors would deal out were they to know the truth of their relationship, both find that they naturally gravitate to each other’s sides whenever they can.

They have spent six thousand years being separated by circumstances. Neither are willing to endure anything like it ever again now that they are free.

So it does not surprise him in the slightest when, one day, Aziraphale finds his attention straying from the crossword to the property section of a newspaper, and Crowley’s response to seeing him tapping thoughtfully at a particular advert is not one of shock or astonishment, but a dismissive, “Yeah, I saw that one too, and I like the location, but it’s terraced, and I reckon we deserve a bit more privacy, don’t you?”

Their eyes meet as Aziraphale turns in his seat to look up at Crowley, the air between them suddenly crackling with possibilities. Aziraphale scans Crowley’s face for signs that he might be joking, that he might just be taking the opportunity to tease, but his gaze is steady and serious without the barrier of his sunglasses to hide it, and the corner of his mouth is drawn into a thoughtful curl.

“Quite. Actually, I was thinking,” Aziraphale says slowly, inching into this new territory, “that it might be nice to consider somewhere rather more rural?”

“Me too,” Crowley says without hesitation. “Time to leave London behind, yeah? It’s been, what, four hundred years, give or take? I reckon we’ve done our time here.”

A smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. “You’re not speaking hypothetically, are you?” he asks softly, because he needs to be sure. Because they spent millennia not saying how they felt, and he would prefer never to face that uncertainty again. “Do you really mean it, Crowley? You’d like to move somewhere else? Together?”

“Of course together. There’s no me without you,” Crowley says immediately, his voice low and tender. Aziraphale reaches out to him instinctively with a soft noise, and Crowley lets himself be reeled closer when Aziraphale fastens a hand around his wrist. He chuckles affectionately when Aziraphale nuzzles briefly into his lean stomach, overcome for just a moment by the warmth in Crowley’s voice.

Sometimes he wonders how on Earth he managed to persuade himself that Crowley had ever felt anything other than love for him, when the sheer force of it is like a tidal wave crashing over him, washing away millennia of doubt.

He buries his face in Crowley’s stomach and just breathes for a moment, basking in the intoxicating scent and warmth of him, before a hand strokes through his curls, grounding him. He emerges to find Crowley giving him an indulgent smile, fondness shining forth from him, and he grins dizzily in response. “I do beg your pardon.” He laughs sheepishly as he releases Crowley. “I’m afraid I got a little carried away for a moment.”

“It’s never a bother,” Crowley assures him with a grin. “You carry on.”

“Yes. Well. I’m afraid it’s just a rather lovely idea. You and I living together, I mean,” Aziraphale explains, unable to stop his smile. “You said you’d already seen that particular listing? Have you been looking much, then?”

Crowley shrugs. “A bit,” he admits, before settling at the table opposite Aziraphale. He pulls out his phone to wave it at Aziraphale, and arches an eyebrow at him. “Not much, admittedly. But I _could_ have a proper look. If you wanted me to, I mean.” Aziraphale’s breath catches as he watches Crowley patiently await his answer, as though they were discussing nothing more momentous than where to go for lunch.

Perhaps it _is_ as simple as that.

“Why not? Yes, let’s look, both of us,” Aziraphale declares, and sets his newspaper down to display the property page with a decisive gesture. A brilliant smile spreads across Crowley’s face as Aziraphale begins peering at the adverts in earnest excitement. “I’m sure it can’t be too hard to find somewhere lovely, can it? Perhaps we’ll have moved in together within the month!”

Crowley’s smile morphs into a smirk, and he snorts through his nose. “Yeah, sure, angel,” he chuckles, already turning his attention to tapping purposefully at his phone. “Most people look for years to find their perfect home, but whatever you say. I admire your optimism.”

It does not take years, but true to Crowley’s warning, the weeks begin to crawl by as they scour property listings. Both adopt their own search methods: Aziraphale miraculously arranges the delivery of every local newspaper within the South Downs area to his bookshop and begins to comb through them by hand, while Crowley spends hours at a time hunched over his phone scowling at property websites.

It is not as though they do not have a myriad of options. Money, obviously, is no object, and a clear and frank discussion proves they both have similar goals in mind: a cottage, in a small village somewhere in the beautiful South Downs, with a decent restaurant nearby, and a modicum of privacy. Aziraphale thinks these are hardly exacting specifications.

And yet there is always something to make them sigh and move on from a property without even getting so far as visiting it.

One house looks perfect, but turns out to be right beside a motorway, which leaves Crowley grumbling about infernal traffic and shaking his head. Another is perfectly located on the edge of a small, picturesque town, but the cottage itself has been renovated to make it more modern, the sight of which makes Aziraphale scowl and launch into a scathing rant about brutalism.

The search continues in this vein for awhile. But eventually, some weeks in, a cottage tucked towards the bottom of the property page in a slim local paper named _The Village Scoop_ catches Aziraphale’s eye.

According to the small blurb it is Tudor in origin, and lies towards the edge of a small village, at the end of a lane. It is detached, two storeys, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, in need of some renovations, and has been languishing on the market for a few years.

The picture is unfortunately both very small and black and white, and Aziraphale fishes out his reading glasses to squint closely at it in the hopes of making out any details. Eventually, frustrated by the realities of cheap local print media, he sighs and uproots himself from the table with a groan as his spine protests.

Crowley looks up at him, startled from scowling at his phone by Aziraphale’s movement, and fights back a yawn. “Giving up for the night?” he asks, rubbing his eyes tiredly with the heel of both hands. Aziraphale does not try to fight the fond smile that blooms on his face at the sight he makes.

“Not just yet. I just want to check something on my computer,” he says, and leans down to press a soothing kiss to Crowley’s head. “But I won’t be too long if you’d like to go to bed, my dear. Or do you need to head off?”

“Yeah, sorry. I need to check on my plants.” He tilts his head back and guides Aziraphale down into another kiss by catching hold of his bowtie and giving it a demanding tug. Aziraphale grins and indulges him.

Eventually Crowley reluctantly gets to his feet. He stretches his long limbs until the joints pop and he lets out a satisfied groan. “I’ll be over tomorrow. Give yourself a break, okay? Don’t spend all night on this,” he warns, wagging a finger at the paper held in Aziraphale’s hand.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale promises, and gives him a final kiss before Crowley saunters away for the evening.

He didn’t mean to lie to him, really. And it isn’t _all_ night.

It’s just that when Aziraphale manages to navigate his way to Google Maps - a truly wondrous invention that, until Crowley had pointed out how invasive it is to people’s privacy, he had assumed Heaven must have been behind - he finds himself really rather taken with the image of the cottage. From there it is so easy to do a little research into the village in which it lies, and then, as his excitement grows, he finds himself looking a little further afield, to find a Michelin-starred bistro a mere half-hour along the road, and a rare book dealer not much further than that…

When he finally emerges from his enthusiastic googling long enough to check the clock, it is past four in the morning, and he is much too excited to do anything but look up the estate agent who has listed the house.

Their office opens at eight-thirty in the morning, so he passes the time for a while by reading through _The Village Scoop_ in its entirety. He cannot help but be charmed by it, as he reads articles about a local woman who has turned one hundred years old, and a nearby primary school which has raised over three hundred pounds for a cat charity.

Once he has exhausted all that _The Village Scoop_ has to offer – it does not take long, though he particularly enjoys the half-page of word jumbles and sudokus – he tries to divert himself for the remaining few hours by catching up on some reading.

This mostly involves him picking a book from a shelf at random, half-reading it until his excitement rises all over again, at which point he abandons it to pace about in a fit of giddiness, then gives himself a stern talking-to, picks up a new book, and sits down to begin the process all over again.

The second the clock on his desk turns eight-thirty, he picks up the phone and calls the estate agent, employing a tiny miracle to arrange a viewing for four that afternoon. As soon as the lady at the estate agent ends the call, Aziraphale dials the number of the bistro, and another miracle ensures they have a table available for lunch.

Finally, he dials Crowley’s number, and hums to himself as it rings.

He draws on all of his patience as he waits for Crowley to wake up. He can picture the scene so clearly, by now: his gangly limbs tangled in the duvet and his handsome face buried in the pillow, groaning and reluctantly surfacing from sleep as his phone vibrates relentlessly on the bedside table.

Aziraphale still does not see the appeal of sleep for himself, but he very much appreciates what it does for Crowley. He takes great pleasure in seeing his demon stripped of any worries and stress, peace settling through his lean form as he rests.

Some small part of Aziraphale, hidden deep within his heart, takes even greater pleasure in the knowledge that he is the only person around whom Crowley will let himself be so vulnerable.

When Crowley finally answers, Aziraphale is bouncing on his heels in anticipation.

“Whassit?”

Aziraphale can practically see him; his face mostly hidden by his pillow, those beautiful yellow eyes stubbornly closed, fingers still clumsy with sleep wrapped loosely around the phone. “Good morning, my dear,” he chirps, and chuckles at the groan it produces. “So sorry to disturb you, but I think I may have found just the place for us!”

There is silence for a moment, broken by the soft sound of silk sheets shifting as Crowley presumably rolls over. “Oh yeah?” he asks, his words a long groan as he stretches. “C’mon, then. Tell me all about it.”

“Well,” Aziraphale begins, beaming to himself. “I found it in this darling little local paper. It’s a cottage, in the countryside, in a village which really is very sweet. I think you’d love it, Crowley.”

“Oh?” Crowley yawns. “You’ve been there?”

“Well, no, not as such. But I read through their newspaper, and I’ve looked it up on the internet,” Aziraphale explains. “It’s quite small, it’s been around since Anglo-Saxon times, and there’s a beautiful forest nearby. Oh, and they have a very well-reviewed pub which has been around for quite a while, in a lovely old building, from what I can see. Apparently Henry Tudor loved it.”

“Oh yeah?” Aziraphale can hear Crowley’s curiosity in his tone as he shifts further in the sheets. “Which one? The shifty one, or the awful thug?”

Aziraphale nods, grimacing and wrinkling his nose as he casts his mind back. “I mean the eighth. Yes, he was rather dreadful, wasn’t he? Very badly behaved. Well, he spent a while in this village when he was travelling around avoiding that awful sweating sickness, do you remember?”

“I’d prefer not to,” Crowley says flatly. “It wasn’t the most appealing time. What’s this got to do with the house, angel?”

“Oh, well, yes,” Aziraphale says, brightening as he returns to the topic. “It was built a few hundred years ago, and it looks simply _splendid_, dear boy – beautiful windows, and very pretty stone walls, and… oh, Crowley,” he sighs, as he pictures the large, lush garden he had managed to make out in the Google Maps images.

Crowley has not actually insisted on a garden throughout their search. He has been cultivating indoor plants for several hundred years now, and when Aziraphale asked if he would like to branch out into a garden, he paused for a long second, seemingly frozen in place for a moment, before claiming breezily that gardens were overrated, and that indoor plants would do just fine for him. The grin he had offered as he spoke had not reached his eyes.

Aziraphale had nodded, and pointedly crossed out the word ‘garden’ on their list of must-haves, but he has secretly been ruling out every property without one.

And he knows, he _knows_ that Crowley will love this garden, and that he could work wonders in such a large space, but he is also loathe to ruin the surprise of it.

So he swallows the flurry of adoring words on the tip of his tongue, and instead of mentioning the garden, says, “I think you’ll love it, I really do. I think this is the place for us.”

“Really?” Crowley asks, and he sounds amused, but there is scepticism lying heavily beneath his words. “Because a royal arsehole liked the local pub?”

“Well, no, dear boy, there’s more,” Aziraphale says, impatient and eager in equal measure. “I’ve done a little bit of research into the whole area. There’s a beautiful forest around it, and the entire village seems terribly charming, honestly, just wait until you see it, and there’s a Michelin-starred bistro nearby with very encouraging reviews where we’ll have lunch before we see the cottage.”

“What? When?”

“Oh! Didn’t I say? Today,” announces Aziraphale, bouncing in place again. “I’ve arranged it all, don’t worry. We’ll have lunch at one, and then view the cottage at four.”

“Oh, I see. You’ve _arranged_ it, have you?” Crowley chuckles. Aziraphale hears the mattress springs shifting as Crowley moves. “This is very sudden. What if my schedule’s all full up? I could be doing anything today.”

“Oh, come now, Crowley, don’t be like that,” Aziraphale says with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, I know it’s sudden, but why wait? This is the place for us, I’m sure of it!”

“You haven’t even seen it in person yet,” says Crowley, his tone irritatingly reasonable. “You can’t be sure of anything yet, angel.”

“I can feel it, then,” says Aziraphale stubbornly. He seats himself in his armchair and injects a note of pleading into his voice as he pictures it all in his mind’s eye; the quiet village, the charming cottage, the enormous garden, all calling out to him. “Please, dear boy, I really do think we should - ”

“ – we’ll go,” Crowley interrupts easily. Aziraphale hears the swish of cloth, and pictures him looking through his wardrobe with the phone clamped between his ear and shoulder. “I’ll take you, if you want to go. I just think we need to be sensible about this, that’s all. No making up our minds before we even get there.”

“Well, quite, that would be silly. I wouldn’t. Of course not,” Aziraphale says quickly, and Crowley allows silence to spread out for a moment. Aziraphale’s words clang around in it until Crowley speaks.

“’Course not,” he echoes, laughter in his voice. “Well, then. We’ll see what we think when we get there, I s’pose.”

“Then you mean...?” Aziraphale asks, his heart thumping excitedly.

“Oh, you know I’ll take you. Don’t be so bloody daft. I won’t be long, angel,” Crowley says. He yawns again, and adds, “Get the kettle on for me, would you?”

Aziraphale all but dances his way into the kitchen after he hangs up and, despite his assurances, he cannot help but picture the two of them having tea together in the cottage.

***

Crowley drops a kiss onto his lips when he arrives, and merely chuckles indulgently when he realises Aziraphale has filled a thermos full of tea, rather than making him a cup. He accepts the thermos with an arched eyebrow, but only says, “You’re making me drink and drive, hmm?” as he allows Aziraphale to herd him from shop.

“It’s only tea, dear boy. You’ve done far more irresponsible things than drink tea whilst driving, I’m sure.”

“And the fact that the drive’ll only take a few hours?” Crowley presses. “We don’t have time to sit down and have a cuppa?”

“There’s no harm in setting off nice and early,” Aziraphale says primly. “You never know what the traffic will be like, after all.”

“Right. Mm. Traffic,” Crowley says agreeably. “Very sensible. I s’pose I should thank you for being considerate enough to consider my driving conditions, hmm?”

Aziraphale flashes him a sheepish smile, and has the decency to flush pink. Crowley dissolves into laughter as they pull away.

The drive is uneventful, passing easily as they leave London and drive through beautiful, sprawling countryside. Crowley, for once, sticks to the speed limit, and Aziraphale chatters happily as they go, filling Crowley in on everything he had found out about the local village. Crowley listens, asking questions here and there, but mostly seems content to let him talk.

After a few hours they arrive at the bistro, which is sleek and modern despite its rural setting. Once they are seated, Crowley peers curiously at the menu and the wine list with the eye of a connoisseur. “Hm,” he murmurs, as Aziraphale looks hopefully at him over the top of the menu. “Seems all right, actually.”

“Yes, it all sounds delicious,” Aziraphale says eagerly, his eyes already straying to the dessert section.

“They do a tasting menu,” Crowley says speculatively, his eyebrows arching. He looks at Aziraphale over his glasses and grins. “With matching wine selections. Well, it’d be rude not to see what they can do, ey?”

“Quite,” agrees Aziraphale with a matching smile.

The tasting menu, they are told, requires twenty-four hours’ notice before ordering. A quick click of Crowley’s fingers ensures that everything is appropriately arranged, and the two of them spend a very happy couple of hours being entertained by everything the bistro has to offer.

Course after course is brought before them, a melody of flavours twining together over the meal to build into a delicious symphony, which sees the both of them sprawling lazily in their seats by the end.

When the dessert tray arrives, covered with a selection of different sumptuous bites, Crowley pushes it all towards Aziraphale, and watches him clear the plate with a fond smile on his face.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, as he leans back and grins loopily at Crowley through a wash of alcohol. “That w’s lovely, don’t you think?”

“Mm,” Crowley murmurs, his chin propped on his hand. He seems to be swaying gently on the spot. “’S tasty. I liked the – the – mushroom thing. With the… other things. Yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says with a fervent nod. “Ver’ good. And that trio of… mousseses…”

“Mice?” Crowley offers, around a toothy smile. “Mices?”

“Well, them, anyway, delicious, all of ‘em. Y’see?” Aziraphale asks, tapping pointedly at the table with his fork and giving Crowley a triumphant grin. “We _should_ live here!”

Crowley’s head tips back and he cackles. “Here? Issa restaurant!”

“Oh. Oh! Well,” Aziraphale says, his finger weaving through the air before making contact with Crowley’s shoulder in a pointed jab, “we should live _close_ to here.”

Crowley shakes his head fondly, but says nothing.

It is easy enough to sober up, after sitting and digesting with a coffee for a while, and the village in question is only about thirty minutes away from the bistro. They arrive before the estate agent, which is exactly what Aziraphale had hoped would happen.

They park in the pub’s car park, which is where the estate agent had agreed to meet them, on the grounds that it was centrally located and the cottage was only a short walk away. Aziraphale suspects that she was hoping to use the walk as an excuse to show off the village, and he is only too happy to go along with her plan.

The two of them step out of the car and breathe in the warm air, the mingled scents of freshly cut grass and neat little rows of flowers drifting over from the village green as they stretch their legs. “What time’s the viewing again?” Crowley asks as he squints at his wristwatch.

“Four.”

“Then we’re early. We’ve got just over an hour to spare,” Crowley huffs, as though being anything other than fashionably late is a personal embarrassment.

Aziraphale steps up beside him to link their arms companionably. “You know, I had rather hoped to look around the village while we were here. Just to see what kind of place it is. A home is more than just the house you live in, I’ve heard.”

Crowley nods slowly. “Right. Yeah. That’s sensible enough. Well, you’re the one who looked this place up,” he says, and gestures grandly in front of them. “Lead the way.”

Aziraphale is happy to and, as ever, Crowley seems contented enough to follow after him. Arm in arm, the two of them stroll through the village.

It almost seems to glow in the golden afternoon light. The ground is cobbled, with lush green verges dotted with flowers, and a long row of trees provides shelter against the sun as they walk. Aziraphale spots a church towards the far end of town, the Anglo-Saxon style hinting at the age of the village, and he sighs fondly as the bells peal to mark a quarter to the hour.

Crowley, meanwhile, seems more interested in the picturesque pub they’re wandering past, and pauses to study their menu. He aims a low whistle at their wine list. “Not bad.”

“I looked at their website,” Aziraphale supplies, his own eyes fixed on the dessert menu. His stomach is almost uncomfortably full, but he has never been good at resisting temptation for too long. “It had lots of local flavour, you know the sort, I’m sure.”

“I can guess,” Crowley nods. “Great ambience? Dog friendly? Pub quiz every Thursday? Every celebrity who’s conceivably been within two hundred miles quoted as having enjoyed the best pint ever here?”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale chuckles. “And a bit of a potted history. The local executioner used to lodge here, apparently. Got up to some reprehensible behaviour whilst carrying out his duties. Some nasty business involving rope. Well, anyway, quite apart from all of that, they’re also very well-reviewed. A hidden gem of the Downs, apparently.”

“Well, yeah, they _would_ say that. That’s what websites are for. You don’t make a website for your pub and say, ‘We reckon we’re not that bad, actually’ on it,” Crowley points out, but he seems to be bickering just for the sake of it as he peers critically through the window.

Aziraphale joins him, and together they take in the sight of a well-polished fireplace, with tables arranged cosily around the room, and a bar running down the side. The bar has numerous wine bottles displayed behind it, and boasts taps for various ales and ciders, and a couple of leather-backed chairs wait invitingly by the fireside, promising warmth on crisp winter nights to come.

The only people within are a woman polishing the bar, paying them no heed, and an older man seated at the window with his drink, who gives them a startled look as he lifts his eyes to meet their gaze from mere inches away.

Aziraphale waves. The man looks from him to Crowley, who offers a smirk, and abruptly turns his attention back to his pint with a roll of his eyes. He mouths something which might be the word ‘tourists’ and issues a scathing shake of his head.

Crowley lets out a snigger, no doubt delighted to have upset somebody without even having to try, and takes Aziraphale by the hand to saunter away.

The village seems to mostly be comprised of one main road, the leafy avenue they’re wandering along, with lanes of houses sprawling off here and there. The few shops on offer appear to be on the main road; they pass a butcher, greengrocer, a quaint little GP surgery, and a post office, and the road stretches back along them in the opposite direction, promising more in that vein.

Aziraphale is hoping an old-fashioned sweet shop will be among them.

Barely anyone is around as they stroll. They pass a young father with a pram, who gives them a harried smile as the child within wails, and two elderly women, who openly stare at them and mutter together as they approach. The whispering halts when they get close enough to overhear, and Aziraphale aims a charming smile at their way. It is met with two bright, insincere smiles, which flicker when Crowley offers his own dark grin and issues a salacious wink from behind his sunglasses.

The whispering intensifies as soon as they pass by, and Crowley smirks to himself as the phrase, “…trouble, mark my words!” drifts past them.

Aziraphale chuckles, and nudges him in the ribs. “You’re incorrigible,” he says fondly.

“Who, me?” drawls Crowley, and grins when Aziraphale laughs.

The main road branches off before too much longer. A signpost suggests that following it would eventually lead to the same road which brought them here, whilst heading left would lead them to a manor maintained by the National Trust, and following a trail to the right leads into something named Withers’ Copse.

They wander down it in unspoken agreement, and after a short, pleasant walk along what becomes a gravelled track, come to a thicket of trees surrounding a large pond. The sunlight dapples the grass around the pond as branches wave languidly in the breeze, and a bench sits invitingly at the edge of the water. Before them, the light glitters on the water, and a variety of birds paddle back and forth atop it, lazily chattering and occasionally diving beneath the surface in an abrupt flurry of excitement.

A similar excitement flutters through Aziraphale’s chest. None of his investigations had suggested this was here. “Crowley!”

“Yeah,” Crowley says softly, and when Aziraphale’s eyes slide to his face, he is grinning broadly.

Crowley squeezes his hand and moves forward at a trot, laughing when the birds react to their presence with a gossipy squawk. He flings himself onto the bench and drags Aziraphale down beside him with a tug of his hand. When he lands with an undignified huff, Crowley sprawls out beside him; his long legs splay out, crossed at the ankle mere inches from the water, and he settles against Aziraphale’s side with a comfortable exhale.

One hand waves languidly through the air, and is suddenly holding a couple of bread rolls. Aziraphale accepts the one he holds out with a pleased, “Oh, thank you, my dear. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s nothing. The least I can do,” Crowley says, looking over his sunglasses with a grin. “And anyway, we might as well meet the potential neighbours while we’re out and about, don’t you think?” His question is accompanied by a small splash as a chunk of bread lands in the pond, bobbing temptingly in front of the assembled wildlife.

Their curiosity piqued, the birds descend en masse. Both Crowley and Aziraphale get to work shredding their rolls and tossing them gently towards the gathering, chuckling as they scramble over themselves to eat their fill.

Aziraphale knows it is too soon to get attached to the place – Crowley has a point, they’ve yet to even see the house, for goodness’ sake – but nevertheless he finds himself picking favourites among the birds.

A small moorhen leads the pack for a while, darting with remarkable tenacity between the larger birds to steal bread away from them, but when a half-grown, gangly cygnet flaps its ungainly way from the water to try and tug the remaining bread out of Crowley’s fingers and startles a yelp from him, his heart is stolen.

“Oi!” yells Crowley, brows drawing low behind his glasses as he aims an insulted look at the swan. “Gerroff, you! You’ll get what you’re given!”

The swan hisses at him, then has the temerity to look affronted when Crowley hisses back.

After an intense staring match, Crowley pointedly chucks another lump of bread off to the side, and the swan waddles after it in a decidedly sheepish manner. Aziraphale follows suit with a rather larger piece of bread, and Crowley’s mulish glower sends him into laughter.

“Oh, yeah? It’s like that, is it?” Crowley mutters, but the crinkle at the corners of his eyes suggests he’s just barely hiding his smile, and as soon as he’s out of bread, he slides an arm around Aziraphale, brushing casually against the short hairs at the nape of his neck and teasing a shiver from him.

Aziraphale leans into his touch with a barely apologetic smile. “Forgiveness is a virtue,” he says primly, just to see Crowley scoff. A kiss to his cheek wipes the expression away easily enough, and Aziraphale remains leaning snugly against him as he finishes feeding the birds.

The moorhen ducks beneath the troublesome swan to grab the last chunk of bread and swims away with a smug flick of its tail. Crowley cackles triumphantly, and aims a rude gesture at the swan when it turns to squawk at him. It lumbers a few steps towards him and flaps its wings threateningly, and Aziraphale chuckles as Crowley cringes back instinctively.

“Oh, shut up, you,” Crowley grumbles, taking his arm back to straighten his jacket as though reclaiming his dignity. “They can break arms, you know. Can’t they? Is that a thing? Am I remembering wrong?”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Aziraphale asks, puzzled and amused in equal amounts. “Swans can break arms? Whose arms?”

“People’s arms! People with arms’s arms!”

“How would they do that?” presses Aziraphale. “They don’t have thumbs, Crowley! How would they break a limb?”

Crowley falls silent as he thinks. Aziraphale watches him, determined to wait him out patiently, but cracks up when Crowley’s arms slowly rise up either side of him, crooking at the elbow as though mimicking wings. His laughter only increases when Crowley flaps them curiously, a deep frown in place as though trying to calculate the best form of attack, and he cannot help but burst, “You _have_ wings!”

“Oh. Right,” Crowley says, and chuckles along with Aziraphale. “Well, I’ve never used mine to snap anybody’s arm! Have you?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale scoffs, before shooting Crowley a sheepish look and adding, “Though I admit I’ve occasionally forgotten myself and let them out in the bookshop.”

“Oof. Shelves flying everywhere?” Crowley asks, and winces when Aziraphale nods with a sigh. He turns back to the swan, and inclines his head towards Aziraphale. “See? Here’s some inspiration for you. If he can ruin his own shop without even trying, you can probably take someone’s arm off.”

The swan hisses thoughtfully, and swims away.

The two of them sit for a while longer, basking in warm air filled with the sound of birds chuntering away to each other. After a while, Crowley checks his watch, and levers himself upright with a groan. “We should head off,” he says, pointing a thumb back in the direction they came. “Your estate agent will be waiting for us by now, I should think.”

Unselfconsciously, as though they have been doing this for millennia, Crowley holds a hand out to help Aziraphale upright. Aziraphale lets his eyes linger on it for a moment, a wave of warmth flooding over him as he thinks about how far they have come together, before he takes hold of Crowley’s hand and lets himself be helped up.

Neither lets go of the other’s hand as they walk off. It feels wonderful.

They wander back the way they came, Aziraphale humming softly and Crowley glancing curiously around them as they go. When they arrive back at the pub – Crowley issues a sardonic salute to the old man still sitting by the window, who glowers as they walk past – they find a short woman in a blazer and brown ringlets standing very close to the Bentley, looking it over in obvious admiration. As she reaches a hand out to brush it curiously over the bonnet, Crowley frowns and waves a finger through the air.

The woman scrambles back with a shriek as an alarm the Bentley certainly wasn’t fitted with a few seconds ago blares to life, flashing its lights and honking its horn cacophonously. “Crowley! She’s only looking,” Aziraphale admonishes.

“You look with your eyes, not your hands,” Crowley hisses in return, and strides off waving his car keys. Aziraphale trots after him and hears him insincerely say, “Oh, sorry about that! It’s a bit of a sensitive system. Can’t be too careful, ey?”

“Something’s sensitive,” Aziraphale says as he pointedly presses his hands over his ears in the face of the Bentley’s racket. “Turn it _off_, Crowley!”

“Right. Yeah. Seen as there’s no harm done,” Crowley says with a sharp grin at the woman, and presses a button on his keys. The Bentley obediently falls silent, and issues an air of smugness as the woman looks between it and Crowley and sheepishly straightens her blazer.

“Oh. This is yours? And you’re – I’m sorry,” she says, and sticks a hand out towards the pair of them. “I’m Tiffany, from Carosella & Fitch Homes. Are you the people I’m here to meet?”

Aziraphale reaches out to take her hand with a warm smile. “Yes, indeed. Hello, Tiffany, I’m Mr Fell. We spoke on the phone. It’s a pleasure to meet you. And please don’t think twice about it,” he adds, giving Crowley a pointed look. “I’m sure you’re forgiven.”

“Sorry again. It’s – well. What a car,” Tiffany gushes as she holds her hand out to Crowley. Her eyes stray back towards the Bentley with an unmistakable admiration in her gaze. “I just couldn’t help myself!”

“Well,” Crowley says, drawing the word out as her obvious appreciation of the Bentley seemingly soothes his ire, “I suppose there’s no harm done. And we can’t be expected to exercise restraint all the time, now can we?” he adds, his eyes glittering behind his sunglasses as he gives her hand a quick shake and grins like the snake he is.

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow at him. “Temperance _is_ something we should all aim for,” he says primly, and Crowley cracks up.

“Get away, angel! Temperance? You can hardly talk,” he smirks.

Aziraphale smiles with a flush. “Still. One can strive.”

“Yeah, well, keep striving, I guess. Anthony Crowley,” he tells Tiffany with a brief nod.

“Pleasure to meet you. Right! Okay! Let’s have a look at this house, then! D’you want to follow me?” Tiffany asks, already walking backwards away from them. “It’s not a long walk, honestly. Five minutes, tops!”

She leads the two of them back through the village, in the opposite direction to the way they had already walked. It is no less picturesque than the rest of the village; they stroll past a library, the sight of which has Aziraphale cooing happily, as well as a floral clock, an upmarket brand of supermarket, and a small corner shop which, Aziraphale is delighted to see, has a selection of sweet jars proudly displayed in the window.

Tiffany walks slightly ahead of them, pointing all this out and talking about various landmarks in the village, as well as trying to suggest that it is barely five minutes away from every useful amenity and major landmark within one hundred miles. Eventually, she glances back at the two of them, takes in their clasped hands, and asks cheerfully, “So, have you been together long?”

“No, not that long, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things. Though it feels like an eternity,” Crowley says easily, and Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

“But still not long enough,” he adds, and Crowley grins and drifts closer to him as they walk.

Tiffany beams at them. “That’s very cute! My nan and granddad talk like that sometimes,” she says conversationally. “All romantic and sweet, like. They’ve just had their fiftieth anniversary!”

Crowley snorts, and Aziraphale hurriedly asks, “Oh, gracious, as long as that? How wonderful!” as he inserts an elbow swiftly and sharply between Crowley’s ribs.

“‘S very impressive,” Crowley adds with a slight wheeze.

“How lovely for them. Hopefully we’ll be able to say the same about ourselves one day. Do pass on our admiration,” says Aziraphale.

Tiffany smiles fondly as she leads them down a lane off the main street. “I’ll tell them when I take them out to their match this weekend. They do lawn bowls together. That’s how they met! Isn’t that sweet? How did you two meet?”

Silence falls, for slightly too long, as the two of them look sidelong at each other in quiet panic and wonder what on Earth to say. Tiffany turns back to give them a politely curious look.

Crowley coughs. “Through work,” he offers.

Aziraphale chokes. “Indeed,” he adds hurriedly, as he gathers himself. He can feel Crowley chuckling by his side, his laughter vibrating through their joined hands. “We…we worked together. That’s right. For different departments,” he adds, and Crowley throws his head back as he cackles.

Tiffany gives them a bemused look, then smiles the smile of somebody who has hundreds of thousands of pounds riding on it seeming both charming and trustworthy, and offers a laugh. “It’s always nice to have an office romance, I think,” she says cheerfully. “Sometimes it just livens up the day to have a bit of a flirt in the kitchen, y’know? Especially if it’s half four on a Friday and it feels like you’ll never hit five. Sometimes a bit of significant eye contact over a monitor just sees you through nicely.”

“Mm, yeah, I know the feeling. It just gets you through the centuries,” Crowley says lightly, and Aziraphale chuckles fondly to himself as Tiffany nods.

“God, definitely! I reckon every Thursday lasts at _least_ a hundred years, you’re right. So is this…” She trails off as she turns back to give the two of them a slightly quizzical look, and her voice is slightly strained as she asks, “A first home? Or….early retirement…?”

“Oh, my dear, how flattering of you,” Aziraphale smiles, tugging fussily at his waistcoat. He sees Crowley roll his eyes at his side. “I suppose you could say we’ve retired. Wouldn’t you, Crowley?”

Crowley pulls a thoughtful face. “S’pose so? Or that we’re freelancing, maybe?”

“Perhaps that’s a better way to put it,” Aziraphale allows. “We’re hardly being given a pension, after all.”

“We’re lucky we got out alive, never mind with a pension,” snorts Crowley.

Tiffany nods sympathetically. “I suppose they didn’t have all those new pension laws back when you started working. I bet it’s difficult.”

Aziraphale gives her a puzzled look, then says, “Quite. Well, regardless, we’ve left, and we’re moving in together, and we thought a change of pace would be nice. Somewhere quieter than London.”

“Yeah, it seems like London would get a bit much after a while,” Tiffany nods. “Did you live there long?”

“Just a little while,” says Crowley lightly.

“It’s been long enough, I bet,” says Tiffany, and suddenly stops short with a grin. “Time for somewhere new!” she declares, and steps to the side with a grand wave towards the house she’s led them to.

It stands at the end of a lane of detached cottages. The path continues along to the side, leading off up a hill towards a distant forest which stands guard over the houses as though sheltering them from the rest of the world.

Google Maps might be a wonderful tool, but the pictures had not done it justice. It is all too easy to imagine that it is theirs. Aziraphale loves it from the moment he sees it.

The roof is slate (_not_ thatch; Crowley had insisted on nothing too flammable, and Aziraphale would never refuse him) and gabled, and the cottage is made of a light stone which almost seems to glow in the golden afternoon light. Both its front door and windows are arched, with slightly darker stone laid in around them in a striking design.

The building is surrounded by a drystone wall that stands waist-high, which is falling down slightly in one place. A gate divides it, wooden with white paint cracked and peeling from it, and when Tiffany swings it open it screeches mournfully, as though it had just got comfortable where it was, _thank you_.

The small yard in front of the cottage is paved in slightly darker flagstones than the house, with several of them cracked completely in two, and a few slightly rickety pieces of wooden furniture huddle together beside a lurking, ramshackle shed. “For the bins,” Tiffany says as she points it out, before indicating across the way and adding, “And there’s a garage, of course. I’m sure you won’t want people making off with your car!”

“I’d like to see them try,” Crowley says absently as his sharp gaze rakes around the yard. Weeds poke determinedly between the flagstones, and a few straggly tendrils of dried leaves lie sadly in hanging baskets either side of the front door. In contrast to their plight, a plant has climbed enthusiastically over a third of the cottage’s front wall, its leaves a lush green with deep red flowers gleaming throughout. Crowley’s lips draw into a thin line as Aziraphale looks up, noticing how the plant has almost completely covered one of the windows on the second floor of the cottage.

“It needs some work, doesn’t it? Rebuilding the wall, replacing these stones, clearing all this out,” Crowley says critically, looking from the slightly forlorn fallen wall to the broken paving stones and dilapidated furniture.

“Cosmetic only, of course,” Tiffany says quickly. She taps her fingernails over the tablet held in her hand. “Structurally, everything is A-okay, you can rest assured of that.”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Aziraphale says to Crowley, who shrugs.

“I’m just saying, you wanted somewhere we could move into right away, yeah? And it looks like nobody’s paid attention to this place in years. We’d already have a job on our hands, and we’re not even inside yet,” he points out. He strides over to the plant to examine it closely. “Nobody’s trimmed this for ages, for a start.”

“It does seem quite voracious,” Aziraphale comments, with a glance up at the diminished window. He trails a hand through the leaves, admiring the ruby lustre of its flowers, and looks to Crowley. “But it’s beautiful, don’t you think? What is it?”

Crowley never disappoints. “_Tropaeolum speciosum_,” he reels off without hesitation, and gives Aziraphale a soft look with an amused curl to his lips. “Also known as flame nasturtium.”

Tiffany gives Crowley an impressed look. “You rattled that off as if it was nothing! Check you, Monty Don!”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asks, puzzled.

“He’s a gardener, angel. On television. You wouldn’t know him. I dabble,” Crowley says, turning his attention to Tiffany, who grins.

“Well, then I’m sure you could put a few pots out here, to catch the sun,” she suggests, indicating the rather sad state of the baskets either side of the front door before fishing a key from her pocket. Her voice becomes more distracted as she struggles to turn it in the lock; the squeak of rusted joints being disturbed for the first time in a while fills the air. “And there’s the garden, of course. That’s round the back, I’ll show you in a bit.”

Crowley blinks in surprise. “A garden?” he asks, and Tiffany nods absently as she fights with the lock. Crowley sidles closer to Aziraphale, and gives him a curious look over the top of his sunglasses. “You didn’t mention anything about a garden,” he murmurs, and his tone skirts the line between confused and accusatory.

Aziraphale takes his hands and offers him a sheepish smile. “Ah. Well. Yes. I know what you said, but I can’t help but think that you simply _belong_ in a garden, my dear.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rise slowly, and Aziraphale replays his words, then squeezes his hands urgently. “Oh, dear, not - I don’t mean to, to remind you of -”

“ - it’s fine,” Crowley interrupts quickly, but he squeezes Aziraphale’s hands tenderly in return. “I know what you meant, angel, it’s fine. Why didn’t you tell me? It feels like you’ve told me every other bloody thing there is to know about this place already. I could probably tell you what kind of milk the butcher puts in his tea if you gave me time to think back over everything you said on the way here.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Aziraphale says, his voice soft. “I saw it when I was looking at pictures of this place, and…and honestly, my dear, you really do need to see it. You’ll love it, I’m sure. I can really see you making it your own.”

“Yeah, well, remember what we said about not making up our minds too soon, yeah?” Crowley says, interrupting Aziraphale as he beams enthusiastically at him.

Aziraphale nods, his smile fading. “Of course. Certainly not. I haven’t decided anything yet,” he claims, even as his eyes glance over the yard. It is terribly easy to picture themselves sitting out here in the sun, sharing a bottle of chilled wine and watching the world pass them by.

When he turns his eyes back to Crowley, the demon is giving him an exasperated, if fond, look. “Right,” he says sceptically, and squeezes Aziraphale’s hands. “Nothing’s decided.”

Tiffany interrupts them with a triumphant noise as the key turns in the lock. “Finally! Are you ready to go in?” she asks, and tries to throw the door open dramatically.

It sticks a few inches in. She wilts a little and gives it a pointed, squeaky shove as Crowley laughs and Aziraphale does his best to hide his smile.

Tiffany shoulders her way inside, muttering, “Sure I asked Geoff to oil the locks,” under her breath, and the two of them follow.

She leads them through a slightly narrow hallway, pointing out that it is central, gives easy access to every room on the lower floor, and leads to the second storey by means of a staircase fashioned from thick, dark columns of wood. It makes a grand sight against the painted white stone walls, thought the effect is somewhat ruined by the threadbare shag carpet somebody has decided to outfit it in.

She leads them through one of the doorways, and smiles triumphantly at them when they are standing together in a room which looks larger for lacking any furniture. The stone walls are painted the same flaking white as the hallway, and the ceiling is a grimy white too, crossed with impressive dark wooden beams.

The room is airy, the ceiling high, and there is a magnificent fireplace against one wall. It has a pattern picked out in a mosaic of coloured tiles, topped with a wooden mantlepiece. More of the same carpet lies thick and age-stained beneath their feet. Aziraphale wonders if its particular shade of beige was ever in fashion. He suspects, from the grimace that spreads across Crowley’s face when he glances down, that it was not.

Tiffany leads them over to the large windows, through which the sun streams into the room, lightening it further. Through the window they see the beautiful view from the side of the house, leading away to the distant woods atop the hill.

“So this is the living room,” Tiffany says, her smile in place as she reels off a list of dimensions. “The fireplace does function, we had it checked by a chimney sweep before we listed the house, so you could use it if you wanted. Just think about it: cold winter nights, all curled up and snuggling together with cocoa in front of a fire,” she beams, and Aziraphale cannot help but do so.

There is a smile tugging at Crowley’s lips when he turns to him, but it vanishes when he runs a finger over the grubby wall with a grimace. “I don’t think much of this paint,” he says, and taps his foot pointedly. “And this carpet’s seen better days.”

“Easy DIY jobs,” Tiffany breezes, and Aziraphale nods. She has no idea how right she is. “Besides, we’ve had a quick look, and the floorboards under the carpet are beautiful. It’d be a quick job to get them polished once the carpet’s up.”

“Just like the bookshop, Crowley,” Aziraphale says encouragingly. “Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“Lots of places have wooden floors,” snorts Crowley dismissively. “That’s hardly a deal breaker.” Still, his eyes stray back to the fireplace, and that same quirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That’s good, though. I like that.”

“Our couch would fit very nicely just there. Just in front of the fire.”

Crowley nods silently, apparently lost in a reverie. He lifts his head after a moment, and flashes a sharp grin at Tiffany. “Right. Next.”

The kitchen is their next stop. It is smaller than the living room, and contains a few poky pieces of wooden furniture, all of them shabby. The counters are blemished and ramshackle, with cupboards above and below filling an entire wall. Some of the doors are hanging off or missing entirely. The oven looks straight out of the fifties and is thickly stained, though some effort has been taken to try and scrub it clean.

Still, the ceilings are high, and the room is light and airy, the windows offering a lovely view of the lane behind limp curtains.

Aziraphale makes a considering noise. Crowley snorts derisively.

“Yes, well, the kitchen is in need of a little modernisation, as you can see,” Tiffany says, soldiering bravely through their reactions. “But it’s still very roomy, and it gets wonderful light, and it would be very easy to renovate it. Apparently the couple who lived here used to bake all sorts of goodies in here. They used to enter them in the village fair’s baking contest every year, and they came home with a lot of ribbons! They used to come up with all sorts of delicious combinations nobody’d ever thought of, apparently!”

“Mm. Carbon monoxide can do weird stuff to your brain, if you get too much of it,” Crowley muses as he gives the ancient oven a grim look.

“The gas line is absolutely fine, I can assure you,” Tiffany says, though her own gaze is wary as she looks to the oven. “Still. Nothing wrong with a bit of modernizing, is there? Replacing old for new?”

“I suppose you have a point,” Aziraphale allows, which prompts incredulous laughter in his direction from Crowley. Aziraphale ignores him, and spends a minute or two gazing out of the window into the lane at the front of the house. It is very easy to imagine himself settling at a large kitchen table with a cup of tea and a book and watching the world go by from this window, and the thought is intoxicating.

Crowley moves to stand beside him, and shoots him an amused, knowing look.

Aziraphale gathers himself. He turns his back on the window and his attention to Tiffany, scrambling for a question. “This cottage seems to have been listed for a while. There’s been no interest in it?”

“Yes, well, it’s been a little while, I suppose. People have had a look, here and there, but nobody’s ever made an offer. Still, you never know when a place will find its perfect family,” Tiffany says smoothly. Aziraphale smiles, charmed by this thought, and beside him Crowley rolls his eyes. Tiffany clears her throat. “It’s been on the market since the last owners left. A few years now.”

Aziraphale nods. “And who used to live here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“An older couple. They moved in when they were married in their teens, and lived here until…” Tiffany trails off as both of them watch her curiously, and coughs. “Well. Until they passed away, rest their souls.”

“In this house?” Crowley asks.

Tiffany issues a nod. “Well, yes, actually. It was nothing _bad_, y’know, nothing…amiss, or anything. Just old age. Their kids live abroad and want to sell this place off, else I’m sure they’d be jumping at the chance to move in.”

“Certainly,” Aziraphale says soothingly. He glances around, picturing a human lifetime spent together within its walls; time spent on love, and family, and happiness, and a smile comes to his face. “What a lovely thought. To have lived so closely for so long. I do hope they were happy.”

“I’m sure they were,” Tiffany agrees, before a conspiratorial expression crosses her face. “You know, I’m not sure I should be saying this, but they say that maybe the couple liked it so much that they never left.”

Crowley arches an eyebrow, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well, we’re not looking for roommates,” he says dryly.

“Oh, I’m not saying it’s true!” Tiffany says quickly. “And I’m not saying I believe in, y’know, all that, but they say people have… y’know. _Heard_ things.”

Aziraphale gives her a politely bemused look. “Oh, really? How interesting,” he says, and apparently this is all the approval Tiffany needs.

“All kinds of things,” she says, in the hushed manner of one sharing a juicy piece of information they had sworn to secrecy. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but apparently people have heard rattling around, and the like. Footsteps, one person told Geoff at the office when he showed them around! Footsteps on the stairs!”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange glances. Then Crowley pulls his phone from his pocket, mutters, “’Scuse me a sec,” and turns away from Tiffany as if to look down at it, though Aziraphale sees his eyes close as he ducks his head. Aziraphale turns back towards the window, and closes his own eyes.

Both remain silent for a moment, as they send their senses forth. They swirl together throughout the house, searching for anything occult, any presence other than the three of them.

There is nothing.

After a moment, Crowley coughs, and Aziraphale opens his eyes to see him scowling at Tiffany, who draws back from the heat of his stare. “Rubbish. Some people will say anything,” he says dismissively.

Tiffany shakes her head, and takes an eager step towards him. “No, honestly! Geoff told me that people have told him all sorts of tales!” she says with some relish.

“I’m sure they have,” Aziraphale says soothingly.

“But they’re wrong,” Crowley says, before smirking. “Dead wrong, ha! There’s nothing ghostly here. Except this bloody carpet, that’s pretty ghoulish. It’s probably just a story somebody made up to make this place sound more tempting,” he says lightly, and his eyes are fixed on Tiffany.

She draws herself up and stares stubbornly back at him. “All I’m saying is what I’ve heard! How do you know it’s not real?” she says pointedly.

She has him; Crowley stammers for a second, his mouth pulled into a sneer, before Aziraphale takes pity on him and steps in. He places a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and moves to stand before him. “What Crowley means to say is that while it’s certainly an exciting prospect, and we’re sure that nobody has intentionally misled you, the two of us are of a mind that there’s nothing supernatural happening in this particular area. That’s all,” he adds, giving Crowley a significant glance over his shoulder. “We’re certainly not accusing you of anything, my dear.”

“Well. No, of course not,” Tiffany says, but her eyes narrow as they stray to Crowley. “I guess if you don’t believe then you don’t believe.”

“There’s no believing about it! There’s nothing to believe _in_,” Crowley huffs.

Aziraphale sighs. He gives Crowley a warning look over his shoulder and decides to stop dancing around the truth, at least to an extent. “You know, we wouldn’t normally tell people this, but I’m sure we can trust you?” he says, lowering his voice as he turns a smile onto Tiffany.

She takes the bait immediately. “Of course!”

“Well,” he goes on, moving closer. “The thing is, Crowley and I…you could say that we’re, well, sensitive, I suppose, to such things.”

Tiffany’s eyes widen in a mix of astonishment and growing glee. “No!” she gasps. “What, really? You’re like that Derek off of the telly?”

Aziraphale blinks. This is not the answer he expected after revealing their considerable supernatural skills. “I’m sorry?” he asks as politely as he can manage as Crowley snorts loudly and derisively behind them.

“Oh, d’you not watch him? And her, with the eyeliner and the night vision camera, all screaming at her husband?” Tiffany asks eagerly. “Wow! D’you do, like, seances and that?”

“Oh. Well. No, I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale says with a wrinkle of his nose. “We hardly want to pester the departed. I’d say they’ve been through quite enough already, without us interrogating them. No, my point is that if there really were somebody inhabiting this place beyond their natural lifespan, then the two of us would be able to sense them.”

“And there’s nothing,” Crowley adds flatly. “Not even a ghostly peep.”

“We’re terribly sorry,” Aziraphale says soothingly, as Tiffany’s wide-eyed excitement collapses into disappointment.

“Oh. Well, that’s a pity. It was a fun story,” she sighs, and Aziraphale smiles consolingly.

“You know, when I was looking into this area, there was something to a similar effect on the pub’s website,” he offers encouragingly after casting around for a way to lift the suddenly disenchanted mood. “Something about a person being hanged there, and wandering the halls ever since. A rather grisly tale, all told. Perhaps your chap at the office was thinking of the pub?”

“Ooh, maybe. Yeah, maybe Geoff was getting his wires crossed,” Tiffany says thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe it’s the pub that’s haunted.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s probably a few spirits at the pub, sure,” Crowley drawls sardonically, and Tiffany cracks up.

“Daft,” she chuckles, and flaps at Crowley with her tablet as she marches from the kitchen, her ire apparently forgotten. “All right, follow me!”

They do so. Tiffany shows off some built-in cupboards as they go through the hall, raving about all the storage space on offer, and then opens a door to show them a small bathroom. Finally, she leads them to the only remaining room on the bottom floor.

“Now, the previous owners just used this as a sort of junk room,” she explains as she opens the door to a poky little room. Light straggles in from a window at the back, but it has a hard time getting around the battered old furniture and boxes piled high and filling the room, all thick with dust. “It’s all stuff their kids didn’t want, so they’ve left it here. But we’d be willing to help you get rid of it, if you chose to buy this place, and I’m sure you’d be pleasantly surprised to see just how spacious this room is without all of it in the way.”

She shuffles along to allow Aziraphale and Crowley to poke their heads in, smiling broadly even as Crowley issues an unimpressed sniff. “Bit cramped, innit? S’not what you’d call a room, really. More of a glorified cupboard.”

“Come along, dear boy, we can manage,” Aziraphale says, and gives a pointed wiggle of his fingers in an attempt to suggest that a few miracles will sort _that_ out.

Crowley snorts, and mimics him with a ridiculously exaggerated gesture of his own whilst pulling a derisive face. Irritation courses through him at Crowley’s attitude, and he draws himself up and pulls away sharply. “There’s no need to be rude,” he snaps. “I’m only trying to think ahead!”

Crowley follows, scrubbing at his nose as dust flies up it, disturbed by Aziraphale’s quick exit. “All right, all right, I’m sorry,” he says quickly, and offers an apologetic squeeze of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m just saying, y’know…rose-tinted glasses, and all that. Somebody’s got to point out the flaws. That’s all, angel.”

Aziraphale scowls for a moment, before it dissolves into a sigh. He nods, and offers Crowley his handkerchief as a peace offering. “Fine,” he says as Crowley blows his nose. “Just make sure you’re giving it a sporting chance, will you? You know we can change whatever we want to.”

“Yeah, well, _or_ we could look around more and find somewhere that suits us without having to be changed too much! That’s all I’m saying,” Crowley says defensively. “Some parts of this place are as old as the hills!”

“Well, so are you,” Aziraphale retorts, and startles a laugh from Crowley.

It tickles Tiffany, too, and she gives them an encouraging look. “Like I said, it’s really spacious without all the boxes and stuff. You could do so much with it! A study, or…” she trails off, looking between the two of them, before adding in a hesitant voice, “Or maybe a nursery?”

Crowley launches into effusive non-verbal spluttering, and Aziraphale laughs nervously. “Ah, well, um, perhaps not,” he says after a moment, his hands fluttering at the air.

“Definitely not,” Crowley agrees. His eyebrows have all but disappeared into his hairline.

“Oh, please don’t worry, you’ve hardly offended us,” Aziraphale adds quickly as Tiffany begins to make apologetic noises. “It’s not that we’re not fond of children, I assure you. We rather like them, actually. Wouldn’t you say, Crowley?”

“Oh, yeah, I like kids, all right,” Crowley shrugs. “Though I couldn’t eat a whole one.”

“It’s just that…well. I rather feel as though we’ve done our time, in regards to that,” Aziraphale goes on, ignoring Crowley as he laughs at his own joke.

“Oh! D’you have kids, then?” Tiffany asks, relaxing a little with his words.

Aziraphale hesitates, looking to Crowley, who shrugs. “No, but we helped raise one,” Crowley says vaguely. “We looked after him until he turned eleven. I reckon that’ll do us.”

“Well, that’s lovely,” Tiffany beams. “It’s all very rewarding, I’m sure. More people should be fostering, well done you. So maybe not a nursery, but what about if it was a spare bedroom? Just in case your little lad visits?”

“Mm, seems unlikely,” Crowley says noncommittally, before he casts his eyes back into the crowded room. “It could work as library, though,” he adds, his voice light as his eyes slide onto Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gives him a flustered smile. “I was thinking perhaps you could keep your plants in here,” he suggests, though the idea of a library is already wrapping its fingers around his eager heart. “It’s south-facing, and I know they’d appreciate the light.”

Crowley’s carefully blank expression softens into a smile, but he shrugs. “Yeah, well, either way, you’re right. We could do all sorts with this. We can talk about it later,” he stresses. “Once we’ve seen the whole place, and had a good think about whether it’s right for us. No point getting bogged down in details right now.”

“You’re right! Let’s move on,” Tiffany says briskly, and turns on her heel to head upstairs. Both trail after her; Crowley gives the bannister a curious shove, and Aziraphale sighs when it rattles alarmingly in its base.

The landing is carpeted in yet more of the beige carpet; a strip is worn away on each stair, in fact, leaving an indelible trace of the couple who lived here.

Aziraphale finds himself wondering about them. Had their marriage been the culmination of a grand romance, or had it been a pragmatic coupling? Had their love filled the rooms which now lay dusty and abandoned? Had this house truly seen years of happiness?

He trails a hand over the grimy chipped paint of the stone wall, trying to imagine the life it had seen before them. He hopes they were happy. He hopes this house has seen joy.

He hopes it will see more.

“So this is the master bathroom,” Tiffany says, interrupting his reverie.

Aziraphale catches up to look into the room she indicates as Crowley gives a cracked, stained bathtub a dubious look.

“All the plumbing’s in fine condition, so there’s nothing to worry about there, and with all the room in here it’d be easy to convert it to whatever you want. A walk-in shower, maybe? Very modern. Very intimate,” she adds with a lascivious wink.

Aziraphale can feel a flush rising ridiculously in his cheeks, and he turns away quickly, feigning interest in a rickety medicine cabinet. From the slightly mildewy mirror set into it he sees Crowley turn to arch an eyebrow at Tiffany. The tips of his ears are pink. He mutters something beneath his breath as she returns his gaze with a smirk.

“I, um, I rather like the bathtub, actually,” Aziraphale offers, scrambling to change the subject, before grimacing as his eyes land on the item in question. “Well, not this particular one, I admit, but in general. There’s something terribly luxurious about a long, hot soak, don’t you think? With a glass of something or other, and a good book.”

“Sounds like a perfect evening,” Tiffany sighs in agreement. “No answering the phone, some chilled music playing, a gin on the go…lovely.”

“Oh, that does sound heavenly,” Aziraphale says, and turns hopeful eyes on Crowley. “Doesn’t it, my dear?”

Crowley watches Aziraphale for a moment, a fond smile at his lips, before he says lightly, “There’s all kinds of fancy things they do with baths now. Jets, and bubbles, and the like. Something like that would be right up your alley, angel.”

“But not yours?” Aziraphale asks, his excitement fading into disappointment.

Crowley shrugs, his hands sliding into his pockets as he prods the elderly bathtub with the toe of his boot. “Well, knowing you and technology, I’d have to show you how to work it, wouldn’t I? And it couldn’t hurt to try it, I s’pose. While I was there,” he allows magnanimously, and Aziraphale beams.

“I’m sure you’d enjoy it, dear boy. It can be a whole experience, you know. A sensory treat. You can add things to turn the water different colours, and scents…I’m sure we could find something lovely to put in it for you.”

“You’d do,” Crowley smirks, and Aziraphale cannot help but smile even as his flush returns.

Tiffany clears her throat briskly, and Aziraphale abruptly recalls she is there, turning even more red as Crowley snickers. “I’m just going to take a call. Join me when you’re quite ready,” she says quickly, already walking away.

“Yeah,” Crowley mutters at her back as she leaves, “There’s you told. Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

“Behave,” Aziraphale warns, moving into Crowley’s space to tug fussily at the scarf lying around his neck. “She’s perfectly pleasant.”

“She’s perfectly after our money,” Crowley points out with a scoff, though it is tempered by the smile tugging at the corner of his lips as Aziraphale fiddles with his scarf. “For tiny spare rooms full of junk and nasty old bathtubs? Estate agents aren’t _nice_, angel. It’s all an act. There’s no need to play along with it.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, it’s not as though it really affects us, now is it?” Aziraphale says reasonably. He glances towards the door and lowers his voice. “It’s not as though the money is an issue!”

“She doesn’t know that!” Crowley snorts. “She thinks we’re two idiots with more cash than sense who might buy a falling-apart cottage if she spins us a tale about it potentially being haunted!”

“It is a nice house, though, isn’t it, dear?” Aziraphale asks, reaching out to take Crowley’s hand. “I know there are things that we’d change - ”

“ – who makes their entire house beige?” Crowley mutters, shifting from foot to foot on what are indeed decidedly fawn tiles. “Who wants this much beige in their life?”

“ – but they’re little things,” Aziraphale finishes pointedly, and gives his hand an encouraging squeeze. “Easily changed. Especially by us! Don’t you think?”

Crowley purses his lips, before sighing and issuing a nod. “Yeah, I know. I _know_, angel. Look, we haven’t even seen it all, yet,” he protests, even as he gives Aziraphale’s hand a comforting squeeze in return. “It’d be daft to make our minds up before we even see every room.”

“But the village is darling, and the pond, and that restaurant - ”

“ – were all marvellous, yeah,” Crowley says firmly. He twines their fingers together and gives the slightly crestfallen Aziraphale a fond look. “But it’s not like it’s the only pond in the world, y’know? There could be better ones, even!”

“But I like _that_ one,” Aziraphale sighs, and he cannot help but aim worried eyes at Crowley. “Don’t you?”

“Of course I do! I like the whole village. It’s got no right being as charming as it is.” He sighs, and takes both of Aziraphale’s hands in his own as he mumbles, “You just…shouldn’t have to settle, is all. Not after everything you went through to keep the Earth spinning. You deserve the best, angel. It should all be perfect for you.”

Aziraphale smiles, his chest filling up with warmth until he feels as though he could burst. “Oh, my dear boy. I really do love you. I do hope you know that much?”

Crowley’s eyes meet his and widen, a flush spreading across his face with his words, even after months together. “’Course I know,” he says, and lifts one hand to kiss the back of Aziraphale’s. “I love you too, angel.”

“Then this is all very simple,” Aziraphale assures him with a reassuring smile. “No matter where we choose to live, no matter how many things need changing, as long as I’m with you, it will be perfect.”

A grin spreads slowly across Crowley’s face, then he surges forward to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. A hand cups his cheek, fingertips trembling slightly until Aziraphale’s own hand presses over them. “You old sap,” Crowley murmurs when they part. “All right, then. I’ll give it a chance, if you really feel like this might be the place.”

“I like it,” Aziraphale admits. “An awful lot. The house, the village, every part of it.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m playing along with estate agent nonsense,” Crowley finishes with a warning poke to his chest as he draws away. “I’ve left Down Below behind. I’m not going to play nice with their minions.”

“Oh, are they…? I suppose that makes sense,” Aziraphale sighs. “Well. Needs must, I suppose. Shall we?”

“After you,” Crowley says, and holds the door open for Aziraphale to move back into the hall.

They find Tiffany checking her phone with the innocent air of a person who has definitely not been trying to listen in. She gives them a bright, guileless smile, and gestures down the hall. “So there’s more cupboard space here,” she says, indicating as they move and stopping to let them peek in. “And then just here we have the spare bedroom.”

Crowley makes a considering noise as they poke their heads into the room. It slopes down at the end beneath the roof, and is carpeted with a thick layer of dust atop the same beige material, but is at least empty of any assorted junk apart from a bed which has long past its prime. “There you go, angel,” Crowley murmurs as he looks thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “There’s a spare room for each of us.”

“A library _and_ a solarium,” Aziraphale beams. “How lovely! You could have the room downstairs, for the sun, and I could store my books here.”

“Very handy for the master bedroom,” Tiffany says encouragingly, ushering them back down the hallway. “You could pop in here, find something to read, and then curl up in bed with it. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“Delightful,” Aziraphale beams in return.

“It’s only here, see,” she adds as she leads them along the entire length of the hall in the opposite direction. She opens the door into a large room, just as dusty as the rest of the house, and left in dim light with grimy curtains drawn over a large window.

A bed stands against the back wall, its frame bleached by age, with broken slats in the headboard. Wardrobes loom imposingly opposite the bed, and a large, cracked mirror affixed to their door reflects Aziraphale’s curious expression back at him as he peers around the room, taking in the high wooden beams and the sheer space of it.

It is all too easy to see the image Tiffany had painted; to mentally replace the broken bed with something large and comfortable, and to picture himself propped up on soft pillows and nestled in silk sheets, reading with a mug of hot chocolate as Crowley lies curled against his side, his head resting on his thigh as he sleeps.

Neither of them worrying about getting back to their own place, or searching fruitlessly for scattered items forgotten in another building, or trying to ignore the dizzying pull of terrible associations in their safe spaces. Instead, they could be free to enjoy each other’s company in a place they can truly call theirs.

He smiles at Crowley, who laughs softly in return, as though reading his mind. “This is all right,” he comments, and to his credit, he glances at the musty carpet for only a moment before turning his attention to the rest of the room. “Roomy. Warm,” he adds, approval obvious in his tone.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Tiffany says cheerfully. “Very large, obviously, you won’t struggle for storage in here. And cosy, you’re right. In need of a bit of redecoration, maybe,” she allows, looking at the aging paint flaking from the stained brick walls, before she strides across to the window and flings open the curtains. “But just look at this view!”

They do. She beams, apparently awaiting a rapturous response, before turning curiously when Aziraphale merely gives her a polite smile and Crowley sniggers.

Her good cheer morphs into frustration when she turns to look at the window, and sees it completely blocked by the same flowers that cover the front of the house. “Oh my god, come _on_ Geoff!” she sighs, rubbing her temples. “Honestly, that man – I asked him to sort this weeks ago!”

“What’re you even paying him for?” Crowley says, in apparently sincere sympathy, though Aziraphale spots a devilish glint in his eyes behind his sunglasses. “He’s not pulling his weight, am I right?”

“Absolutely! Bloody useless,” Tiffany grumbles. “Sorry about this, guys. I promise, this room has an absolutely amazing view of the garden, without all this…what did you call it? Fire flowers?”

“Flame nasturtium,” Crowley adds easily. “It can go wild, if you let it. Don’t worry about it. Maybe Geoff’s just not up to the job?”

“Not for the first time,” Tiffany mutters scathingly.

“I’m sure it’s a wonderful view,” Aziraphale says comfortingly. “The room is certainly very nice, even without being able to see the garden.”

“Oh, well,” sighs Tiffany, before plastering on a bright smile. “Why don’t we just go and see it for ourselves, ey? One last stop and then we’re done. I’m sure _you’ll_ love it, Alan!” she says, giving Crowley a cheeky grin as she leaves the room.

Crowley smiles back, more baring his teeth than anything genuine, and Aziraphale sighs worriedly. “Oh, don’t judge her for forgetting your name, my dear,” he whispers hurriedly, terrified by the prospect of the demon being too cross to appreciate the garden properly.

Crowley gives him an amused quirk of his lips. “Don’t worry about it. She hasn’t. It’s another TV gardener.”

“Another one?” Aziraphale blinks in confusion. “How many can there _be_?”

Together they follow Tiffany back downstairs. She leads them to the end of the hall, fussing through her pockets in search of another key.

“Know I had it here a minute ago,” she mutters, before making a triumphant noise and brandishing a large, rusty key at them. “Here it is! All right, well, you have to remember that the last owners weren’t really able to take care of this place, by the end,” she explains as she unlocks the door with difficulty and swings the door open despite its shriek of protest. “It’s a bit…unkempt. Overgrown. But I’m sure it wouldn’t be too difficult to get on top of it!”

Aziraphale stands aside to let Crowley exit first, and if asked, would never admit to the fact that he crosses his fingers behind his back as Crowley strolls outside. He waits for a second, until he hears a gasp escape from Crowley, and then follows with an enormous, hopeful smile.

Tiffany is right. The garden has clearly not been touched for years, but the sheer wild explosion of lush, verdant plant life only makes it more impressive.

It stretches out for what feels like miles; the same drystone wall that circled the front of the cottage cuts a grey, slightly tumble-down line through otherwise unfettered growth. To one side of the wall lies another person’s garden, with neat hedges trimmed to near-military precision, and on the other side of the cottage a meadow sprawls away, leading up to the distant woodland thicket up the hill.

Crowley’s eyes, however, are focused entirely on what lies within the extensive confines of the wall. Aziraphale glances over the garden, before turning his attention to Crowley, a beam growing on his face as he takes in the way his mouth hangs open speechlessly, as though his breath has been stolen away.

What may once have been a lawn stretches away from them, broached by plants spilling out from overgrown flowerbeds. Brightly coloured flowers march their way through tall grass, waving gently in the breeze. A few cracked clay pots are dotted among them, one lying on its side and spilling beautiful white flowers that almost shine in the afternoon sun into wild grass. A long-forgotten stone path winds its way down the middle of it all, mostly lost to encroaching plant life, and overgrown shrubs burst into unfettered explosions of colour amidst it all.

But best of all are the trees.

There are several different varieties dotted about the garden. They stand tall and proud against the clear blue sky, casting shade amidst the sun and filling the air with the soothing, gentle rustle of their leaves. Some have shrubs winding their way up their trunk, coating them in brilliantly coloured flowers, while some stand regally separate from the rest of the garden, as though watching over it proudly.

Beside him, Crowley makes a choked noise and scrabbles to take his hand. Aziraphale twines their fingers together as Crowley takes an abortive step forward, then raises his free hand to point down the length of the garden. “Angel,” he whispers, and Aziraphale’s heart leaps as his eyes land on a cluster of trees at the end of the wall.

All seem to be the same variety. All stand tall, with some branches growing out to twine together, leaving the garden beneath them covered with a shady canopy.

And all are laden with apples. The fruit hangs heavily from the trees’ limbs, plump and deep red and so very tempting in the warm summer air.

Crowley’s fingers tighten around Aziraphale’s, shaking slightly.

“As you can see, it’s a very large space,” Tiffany is saying behind them, mostly unheeded as she turns her eyes critically over the garden. “Room for all sorts. You could add a vegetable patch, maybe, or a conservatory? Or you could pull all this up and go for some decking.”

“Decking?” Crowley echoes, finding his voice as he spins on his heel to give her an incredulous look. “Give me strength! You mean to say you can look at this – at all of this, this - ”

“ – this paradise,” Aziraphale supplies, his voice low and soft.

Crowley swallows hard, and nods sharply. “And think about ripping it out for bloody _decking_?”

Tiffany raises her chin defiantly in return. “It’d be handy for a barbeque.”

Crowley throws his hands up in despair. “Humans,” he mutters beneath his breath, and pointedly turns his back on her to stride further into the garden.

Aziraphale follows at his heels, and watches as he falls silent. He moves to stand behind Crowley, and rises onto his tiptoes to rest his chin at his shoulder with his arms wrapped snugly around him.

“You knew it was like this, didn’t you?” Crowley’s tone is one of breathless astonishment.

“I did. I suspected I wouldn’t be able to do it justice if I tried to describe it to you,” Aziraphale admits, his lips moving against the shell of Crowley’s ear. “And I wanted you to see for yourself what we could have. Will you forgive me, my dear?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Crowley breathes. He leans back into Aziraphale’s hold, and raises his hands to encompass the entire garden. “It’s…just look at it!”

“She’s right,” Aziraphale comments mildly, inwardly amused by their sudden role reversal. “It’s rather wild.”

Crowley nods. “I know. It’s exactly like it should be. It’s just like…” He trails off, the words apparently catching in his throat like motes of dust, and Aziraphale takes pity on him as his throat bobs.

“Like Eden,” he says softly. “I know. I’m not the only one of us who deserves perfection, my dear boy.”

“A garden of our own,” Crowley whispers. “Oh, _angel_.”

“I know,” Aziraphale repeats, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Hope is bubbling inside of him, filling every inch of him, and his arms tighten around Crowley as he sways the two of them from side to side in excitement. “Crowley, darling, I know what you said, and of course you were right to suggest we act cautiously, but perhaps - ”

“ – yes,” Crowley says, and there is not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. He wriggles in Aziraphale’s grasp to turn and face him, and cups his face with both hands. “You were right. This is the place. We’ll change anything we need to, we’ll bloody well rip out every bit of beige, but this is it. This is where we belong.”

Aziraphale gapes in return. “Do you really mean it?”

His answer comes in the form of a desperate, needy kiss. Crowley’s lips meet his with a fervour that could send Aziraphale reeling were Crowley not holding him so firmly in place.

“Yes,” he repeats when they pull apart, his forehead resting against Aziraphale’s and his eyes wide and hopeful behind his dark lenses. “Angel, yes, please?”

Aziraphale beams in response, and pulls Crowley even closer to kiss him in return. When they pull apart he rises onto his toes again to press another kiss to his forehead, a silent promise laid against his skin.

He twines their hands together, and turns to face Tiffany, who is openly watching them with an enormous grin. “My dear?”

“Yes, Mr Fell?”

Aziraphale glances back at Crowley, and smiles at the sight of him haloed by the golden light streaming into the garden.

Into _their_ garden.

“My dear,” he says breathlessly, as Crowley offers him a silent nod, “I do believe we’ll take it.”


End file.
